


Six of Sabers

by canis_m



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, Gay wizards in space, Jedi, M/M, Mentor/Protégé, The Force Ships It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2018-11-01 04:05:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10913970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canis_m/pseuds/canis_m
Summary: After a difficult mission, Jedi Master Graves is sent to a center of healing to recover.  He wasn't expecting to like it.





	1. Chapter 1

The Healers’ aides on Kyor Wen wore uniform jumpsuits of dove grey trimmed in green. The color put Graves in mind of Initiates’ robes, or the mist that clung to the cloud forests beyond the Temple. 

A jumpsuit didn’t do much for anybody, even the young man of alarming beauty who was checking Graves in, but the color suited him. MedAssistant Barebone, Medical Corps, read the badge at his breast. He leaned over the medical droid’s display panel, attentive. His hair fell in dark waves to the nape of his neck. 

"There’s a prescription for an anxiolytic--"

"No thanks," Graves said. 

Dark eyes flickered up at him, then down. "Just the analgesic, then."

Graves stretched his right leg. He’d torn a ligament or two clawing free from Grindelwald’s den, but the ache was mostly phantom now. "Low dose," he said.

He studied the young man, feeling a pull that was only part physical. The Force swirled around him, around the two of them, in deep currents--not agitated but distinctly in motion, impossible to ignore. Graves hadn’t felt the like since it had dragged him by the nose to Tina, back when she was a scrawny sprat, but this boy was too old to become a Padawan. Too old by far. 

Even so, his presence was tremendous. "How'd you wind up in the Corps?" Graves asked. "If it’s not too cruel of me to ask."

"As an Initiate I had problems with control," said Barebone quietly. 

“Lots of Initiates have problems with control.”

"Mine were unusual." The dark eyes gave nothing away, but Graves felt a glint of old hurt through the Force. "No Jedi Master would have me."

Graves grunted. "Cowards."

It earned him a wan, fleeting smile. The medi-droid blipped, whirred, and dispensed a payload of painkillers. Barebone handed the packet of capsules to Graves. 

"Your plan of treatment is rest, meditation, exercise in moderation, hydrotherapy, and cognitive sessions with a Healer."

"Can’t wait," said Graves. It all sounded tolerable, except for the last on the list. He stuffed the pack of meds into the depths of his cloak.

Barebone glanced at the droid’s display again, then at Graves, eyes fixed on the general area of Graves' shoulder. His head bent with deference and doggedness in a peculiar mix. 

"The sessions are mandatory, it says."

Grousing was beneath a Jedi, as was hiding a hand in his sleeve to flip the bird at Coruscant and Master Seraphina. Graves settled for rising from his seat and smoothing his cloak. He turned toward the door of the consulting room, then back to the young man.

"Where can a guy get a drink around here?"

"The refectory serves wine with meals." Barebone spoke with clinical disinterest. He poked at Graves' chart with one long, elegant finger. Lucky chart. "The commissary stocks other legal intoxicants."

"You don’t drink."

A headshake. So much for that tack. Graves tried again. "You play sabacc?"

Barebone opened his mouth, as if to issue another automated no, then paused. His expression changed. He blinked, mouth hanging on faint startlement, then straightened and stood eye to eye with Graves for the first time. The Force swelled. 

Graves tilted an eyebrow, mildly enough, or so he thought. Barebone promptly looked down again. His hands curled into his uniform sleeves.

"I don't, Master Graves. But I'd like to."

*

Graves found his quarters and the commissary, then set out to explore the gardens. Moderate exercise, as prescribed, and good policy: learning the lay of the land in new territory had more than once saved his skin. His wandering led him to a reflecting pool, a silvered expanse fringed by fern-leafed trees. A viewing deck stood beside the pool, and who should Graves find there, sitting all alone, but his new friend.

Sunlight had stretched into the long gold haze of late afternoon, verging on early evening. The day shift must've ended: the boy hadn’t changed out of his uniform, but his ID badge was gone. Graves waited, prepared to retreat rather than disturb, but then Barebone opened his eyes.

"You still meditate," observed Graves.

Barebone's posture in meditation had been upright, centered, pretty as you please. Now his shoulders hunched. 

"I stopped," he said. "For a while. When I was sent to the Corps. A friend encouraged me to come back to it."

"Smart friend," said Graves, settling down beside him. The deck was native hardwood, polished to glossy smoothness by centuries of robed knees. The surface of the pool shone mirrorlike, unruffled by any hint of wind. The air hung close and moist, rich with the forest’s exhalations. "What about katas?"

A frown creased the fine brow. "What about them?"

"You still practice?" 

"Why would I? I’m never going to use a lightsaber."

Bitterness darted through the Force, twisting like a wounded fish. Blood in the water. But that was no surprise. It dissipated, and the fish slipped away to re-submerge. 

"Don’t need one," Graves said mildly. Like every Initiate, Barebone would've learned open-handed forms, would've drilled until he could do them in his sleep. "It’s good exercise. Calms the mind."

"Is my mind in need of calming, Master Graves?"

"Whose isn’t?"

Barebone gave him a look, one that remarked sidelong on his Masterly robes. The cloak pooled around and behind Graves, dark sable lined with creamy white. The lining was a shameless luxury. Certain parties on the Council liked to give Graves shit for it. Mouth gone crooked, he shook his head. 

"I need it as much as anybody. Why else am I here?"

Barebone looked as if he’d forgotten. "Is it true you--" He hesitated. "One of the Healers said your mission was against Grindelwald. The Dark Jedi."

Not only mine, Graves wanted to say. There'd been a team of Knights with him. When they'd entered the complex at Nurmengard, Grindelwald had snapped the others with a wrench of the Force, like so many Jedi twigs. Hadn’t even bothered to draw his saber. Not until he came at Graves. 

For a minute Graves closed his eyes, letting the horror replay as it would, a broken holo. Letting guilt rise, vomitous, in his gorge. Then, with an inward gesture like the closing of a hand, he stopped it. Contained it, and for the moment set it aside. It was a temporary measure, but he retained that much sway over his ragged mind, at least.

A shift of cloth beside him. The attention on him quivered with concern, even before the boy spoke.

“Master Graves?” In private conversation, outside the requisites of duty, Barebone shied from flat-out asking _are you all right?_

The mission had been covert, need to know. Graves grudgingly supposed the Healers needed to. Maybe their assistant did, too. He said nothing aloud, only sent a wave of admission through the Force. 

Barebone sucked in a breath. Graves opened his eyes to find him sitting up straight, gazing openly at Graves. Distress shone from him like a muted beacon, suffused with nonsensical regret. And conviction: that someone should’ve been there, someone to guard Graves’ back, a presence just behind him, behind and one step to the left–

Dizziness smote Graves, and with it a clap of stark displacement. Time twisted. The hairs stood up on the back of his neck. He saw with perfect clarity--

_\--the boy before him in Padawan robes, hair cropped pitiably short except for the braid behind one ear. The lovely face unshrouded, the Force singing clear and true. His own hand on the braid, thumb sliding down the length of it, more slowly than he’d done with Tina’s before making the cut--_

As soon as it struck, the vision vanished. Graves managed not to keel over wheezing, though his thumb twitched against his forefinger, feeling dazedly for a braid that wasn’t there. He stared at Barebone, who blinked back. 

A past that hadn’t been? Or a future that might yet? 

And what the hell was Graves supposed to do with either? He couldn’t take a twenty-something member of the MedCorps as his next apprentice. The Council would never consent. Master Seraphina would have his head. Maybe his balls. Likely both. 

_Just what are you trying to pull here?_ Graves asked the Force. 

The Force kept its own counsel. In the distance a bell began to ring. Graves turned his head.

"Call to meditation?"

"To the refectory," said Barebone. "The dinner bell."

“Even better,” sighed Graves, who hadn’t eaten on the ship, and Barebone smiled. The warmth of it was heartening. "We still on for sabacc after?"

Barebone nodded. Then he lowered his eyes. "Unless…I could show you the dining hall. How everything works." His hands on his knees didn’t twitch.

Well, well, thought Graves. Maybe the Force wasn’t hollering at him alone. At least that made two of them. He nodded sideways at the pool and the reflecting he had yet to do.

"Give me half an hour? Unless the pudding’ll be gone."

Barebone shook his head. He unfolded, all limber leanness, and rose to his feet. 

"I'll come back," he said simply, and bowed his way off the deck, proper as any Padawan. 

Bemused, Graves watched him go, across the garden toward the resident dormitories. Then he shifted to squarely face the pool. From this angle he couldn’t see himself in the water, only the canopy of leaves and sky. It was probably for the best. 

*

Credence--who'd decided over dinner that he didn't want to be Mr. Barebone, not to Graves--caught on to sabacc quickly. Too quickly. In the Shifting phase of their first round, Graves narrowed his eyes and laid his cards down flat.

"You have too played before," he said.

They sat on floor cushions at the low table in Graves' quarters, beside the open window that overlooked a tangle of green. Credence had brought his own tea; Graves sipped at a bottle of local rice wine from the commissary, served chilled in an absurdly small glass.

Credence hid a smile behind his teacup. "I didn't say I'd never played at all."

"Little sneak," said Graves, delighted. He hadn't sensed deception, either. Impressive stuff. He glanced at his changing hand: the Four of Sabers had become a Nine of Flasks. "What else are you not telling me?"

"When you go on a half-year mission to catalog the native amphibians of bog planet Skrewt, you learn to play cards with your teammates. Whether you wanted to or not." At Graves' curious look, Credence added, "I started in the Exploration Corps."

"Bog planet, eh."

"I learned a lot. That I like animals. That I don't like swamps."

"So you transferred to Medical."

Credence nodded. "It helped me, though. My time in ExplorCorps. Our team leader was a xenozoologist. He could practically talk to animals through the Force. He told me he was glad he hadn't passed the Initiate trials, and he meant it. I met others like that, too. It helped me let go of my...attachment."

To what, Graves didn't have to ask. He decided not to draw, and spread his cards face up on the table. Credence flashed the Ace of Staves and took the hand. He scooped up the pot--a heap of smooth dark pebbles from the garden--while Graves collected the cards.

"You shouldn't have had to," said Graves, only to regard himself with baffled dismay: when had his filter gone haywire? Had Grindelwald smashed that, too? But he couldn't retract the words. He frowned and mechanically shuffled the deck. 

Credence looked confused, then stricken. Graves could feel his turmoil in the Force. 

"Why would you say that?" 

"It's the truth. You shouldn't blame yourself for not being chosen. The right teacher wasn't there at the right time. Not when you needed it. Wasn't your fault." 

Credence picked up the cards Graves dealt him with tremulous hands. "That's almost worse," he said thickly. "If it wasn't me. If it was just...dumb luck."

Graves grimaced. "I've opened old wounds. I shouldn't have." Wounds that were healing, as near as he could tell. As well as they could. "Forgive me."

"It's not your fault, either," said Credence. He studied his cards, listless, then slid pebbles to the center of the table.

Graves gestured at his half-empty bottle. "I'd offer you a drink, if it'd help."

With a small huff Credence shook his head. "Thank you."

"What's the story there? Just don't care for it?"

"It reduces inhibitions," said Credence, in the clinical tone he'd used in the ward. "I don't want my inhibitions reduced." He paused. "And alcohol interacts poorly with my medication."

Startled, Graves peered at him: the picture of a young man in good health. "You're not sick, are you?"

Credence lay down his cards. He sat silent for a moment, hands braced on the table's edge. He seemed torn as to how to answer, or whether to answer at all. 

"Sorry," Graves said, ready to kick himself again. Some Jedi Master. "None of my business."

"I take suppressants," blurted Credence. The rims of his eyes shone with a wildish tinge. When he saw the blankness on Graves' face, he grew flustered. "To, to help me with control."

Graves continued to stare, awash in the Force's roil, and then he understood. He jerked upright, on the edge of surging to his feet.

"Force suppressants?" He'd heard of such things, in extreme cases. Criminal ones. Blood pounded in his head. "You're being _drugged?"_

"It was my choice," said Credence tightly. "To go on them. I hurt someone. When I first joined the Corps. He, he said some things and I...lashed out. With the Force. I could've killed him." He lowered his head. "No one's making me take them. They don't--cut me off from it completely. They just--" he groped for words. "Dim it." He looked at Graves. "I can still feel it. I feel you in it. You're very. Vivid."

Graves' throat closed. He sat back again, slowly, then leaned and reached across the table to where Credence's hand lay, braced taut. He clasped the thin wrist and gently gripped.

"You shouldn't have had to make that choice. I should've been there, when you were thirteen, to make you my apprentice." To make you mine, hissed some low reptilian base of his brain. Graves couldn't even bring himself to reprimand it. "I would have, if I could've."

With a hurt noise Credence pitched forward, huddling over the place where their hands touched. 

"Where were you?" he whispered. "I used to see you at the Temple. I watched you in the Masters' exhibition duels." He searched Graves' face. "Then in my last year, you were gone."

Graves struggled to recall those matches, in shambles at the thought of little Credence watching from the stands. If Credence was in his early twenties now--eight years ago? Nine? 

He shook his head. "We were in the field. Tina and I. Shutting down a trafficking ring." He wasn't sure how much to say. "She's Knighted now. Working solo."

Credence gave what might've been a curt laugh or a sob. Then he collected himself, and faintly said, "Congratulations to you both."

His pained grace put Graves to shame. Graves bowed his head to honor it, withdrew his hand into his sleeve, but the gravity between the two of them kept pulling. As if to lock them into mutual orbit, a binary system. If this was Credence with his Force connection dampened, Graves could only imagine what he'd be--how he would _feel_ \--with blinders off.

"I should've been there," he repeated. Useless, helpless. Credence looked at him with blurring eyes.

"You're here now," he said.

*

They didn't finish the sabacc game. They sat talking as twilight darkened through the window, as nocturnal creatures woke and stirred among the trees. When Graves cautiously proposed a tandem meditation, Credence didn't laugh, and joined him on the rug. 

It eased the last of the remaining strain. By the end of it they breathed in synchronicity. Afterward, Graves saw Credence to the door. They lingered there, in the low light from solar lanterns on the path, Graves standing closer than he had any right to stand. He flattened his hand on the door frame to keep it from landing where it shouldn't: on Credence's hip, or the nape of his neck, or the wondrous dark cloud of his hair. 

"Can I see you tomorrow?" he asked, instead of _can I kiss you,_ which seemed a complicated idea at best.

Meditation had left Credence soft around the edges, hazy, yet densely present. He nodded. His gaze lingered in the neighborhood of Graves' chin. He licked his lips.

"What...what are we..."

If Graves looked any sharper himself, he didn't feel it. "I don't know," he said quietly. "We'll figure it out."

"The Force will guide us?"

"It will."

Acceptance flowed from Credence, and peace, and infant trust. It tasted like breathable air. He glanced sideways at Graves' hand on the door, clearly observing, then stepped away.

"Good night, Master Graves," he said.


	2. Chapter 2

Graves' convalescence, if you could call it that, began in earnest. Through routine he imposed order, if only on his days and not his mind. 

After rising there were ablutions, meditations, katas, morning meal. News and messages from the greater galaxy. A walk through the grounds, an hour of work in the kitchen gardens. Growth and warm earth under his hands, wedged in his fingernails, against the skin. Midday meal. In the afternoons: reading, then more katas, sometimes in the company of other convalescents. Either that, or one of his inner torture sessions with a Healer, and then more katas--alone--to compose himself. 

By late afternoon he would begin to feel he was marking time until Credence's shift ended. The sense left him full of amused rue. A Jedi should attend the moment. He attended the moment, accepted his desire in it. If the desire was foolish, he accepted that, too.

Credence would find him, unerring, even before the appointed dinner hour. At evening meal and meditation, at cards or in the mineral spring pools, Graves had the pleasure of his company, his presence. Sometimes it was quiet to its depths, sometimes lively with eddies that surprised Graves when they breached the surface. He soaked in it. It did him more good than any other part of his care.

And they talked. Credence spoke, haltingly at first, of his childhood: fragmented early years on a Middle Rim world, in the grip of a cult that equated Force use to witchcraft. Abused by his surrogate mother. A Jedi Knight had found him and his little sister, both sensitives, and taken them away.

Life at the Temple had seemed like paradise, marred only by the storms of Force energy that sometimes burst from Credence, uncontrolled. The Creche Masters could contain them, and over time--as Credence came to trust in safety--they grew rare, but the dread of his own power haunted him. He never learned to revel fully and freely, as the other Initiates and his sister did, in his connection with the Force.

He told Graves how he'd felt ill at ease in the Galactic City, amid the seething traffic of trillions of lives. How he liked Kyor Wen, its verdant quietude, the cloud forests above the Temple complex, the lowlands with their sprawling farms. He wanted to know where Graves was from, which planets he liked best.

"I'm a Temple brat," Graves told him. They were back at sabacc; Graves was getting used to being regularly trounced. "Coruscant born and raised."

"Your parents were Jedi?"

"Both of them."

"No wonder," said Credence, with a twisting smile.

"No wonder what?"

But Credence shook his head. "Do you like it? The city."

Graves folded his cards and glanced through the open window. The scent of some night-blooming liana pervaded the room. "I suppose I do," he said. "But I like this place, too."

When the hour grew late, Credence would wish him good night and return to his own dormitory. Sometimes he looked at Graves with a soft silent question, but a part of him always seemed ready to retreat, and Graves didn't try to dissuade. The gravity between them stayed quiescent, at least for now.

By night, in dreams, Graves stood at Nurmengard, between the citadel's high stone walls. The dark spires towered over him. 

He watched the other Jedi die, again and again. 

They were with the Force now. That wasn't something to grieve. It was the manner of their joining it that continued to disturb Graves. The manner, and the fact that he'd been spared the same fate.

He practiced lucid dreaming; his Healer suggested he walk himself out of the scene when the nightmare began. But that would mean abandoning the others--leaving them to die--which made no more sense to his sleeping self than to his waking one. In the end he would rouse himself from sleep, not thrashing, not with panic in his throat, but wearily resigned.

*

A week after his arrival, there was a holo from Tina. She was somewhat less than serene.

"They sent you against _Grindelwald?"_ Her virtual face grew blotchy red. She hated when it did that; usually her affect control was better. Graves couldn't bring himself to give her grief about it now. "And you didn't tell me?"

"The mission was need to know," Graves said. Not without a twitch of guilt.

"I needed to know!"

"You needed not to be distracted," said Graves. "Anyway, I lived. How'd the transfer of power on Seachel go?"

Tina deflated, if only for a moment. "Uneventfully. Aside from the assassination attempt."

"Which you foiled." At her nod, Graves smiled. "Another notch on your belt, Knight Goldstein."

The praise failed to divert her. Her brow darkened with reproach. "How could you not tell me? What if you hadn't come back?"

"Then I'd be one with the Force," said Graves. "All the better to harangue you."

Tina glared, then appeared to relent. "What's the Kyor Wen Temple like?"

"Restful. Scenic. More pleasant than I expected." Graves rubbed his bristled jaw and smiled again. "There's good company. Also scenic." Her eyebrows rose. "Young man from the MedCorps. Prettiest thing I ever saw."

"You shouldn't call beings 'thing,' Master. It's insensitive."

"You know what I mean. Figure of speech." Graves watched fondly as she gave him the expected look. "Enough about me. Tell me about your next assignment." 

If Tina recognized the diversionary tactic, she let it slide. When they ended the holo, Graves could sense that she felt comforted, assured of her Master's resilience, even from parsecs away.

After the call he grew restless. His sprained leg conceived an irritating ache. He took an analgesic and a long walk in the gardens, and when those failed to serve, found an open patch of lawn. The day was cloudy, tepidly warm. Graves shucked his cloak and did his stretches, then began to put himself through Form V katas at quarter speed.

A pair of younglings scuttled up: residents' children, human or thereabouts, of indeterminate gender. They waited until Graves finished a form before piping up.

"Please, Master Jedi, could you show us the kata with your saber?"

Graves had been practicing open-handed. He squinted down. "Shouldn't you be in class?" 

"We're done for today, Master, sir."

Graves grunted. His lightsaber hung from his belt, sizable enough to catch the casual eye, its casing black with silver trim. He found himself reluctant to reach for it, and the reluctance gave him pause. He tried to recall the last time he'd powered the saber on. Not since he'd come to Kyor Wen--on Coruscant, then, before he'd left? Surely--but no. He'd gone from Healers' ward to Council chamber, back to the Healers, then to his quarters when he was finally discharged. No time in the training halls. No reason to draw a weapon.

Not since Nurmengard.

The younglings were waiting, eyes bright. It should've been easy to oblige them. At the Temple on Coruscant he'd done as much a hundred times. 

Graves drew a breath.

"You mustn't pester Master Graves," said a voice, and Credence was there, on the path, crouching down beside the children. "He's not here to give a demonstration."

"We weren't!"

"We didn't!"

Graves hooked a thumb in his belt. "They weren't," he said, eyes on his rescuer. "They asked nicely." Credence looked back, uncertain of his reception. Graves sent a wave of wryness through the Force, and felt relief in answer as Credence's shoulders ticked downward. To the children Graves said, "Another time."

"Go on," added Credence, not unkindly, and the younglings sprang up to dash away, yelping thank-yous and goodbyes to them both.

Graves watched them go, then looked at Credence. "Was I that obvious?"

Credence shook his head. He removed his work ID badge and tucked it into his jumpsuit pocket. "You seemed preoccupied, that's all."

Graves grimaced, then flexed his empty hand. "Kids. You'd think they never saw a Jedi before."

"You look more like a holo star than a Jedi," observed Credence, and Graves nearly choked. "That could be why."

Who, me, Graves didn't say. He knew how his looks were generally regarded, even if he'd let himself go since arriving on Kyor Wen. How they were regarded, and how to put them to use. Once he'd achieved his present rank and begun to go a little gray around the temples, the Council sometimes wrangled him into appearing in promos for the Order. Reassuring images: a brown-eyed, bearded Jedi Master cradling babes in his arms while pacifiers floated (courtesy of the Force, one presumed) around his head. Graves couldn't vouch for their effectiveness.

"Should I leave you in peace, too?" Credence asked, and Graves realized how long he'd been silent. 

"Only if I'm boring you," he said. He gestured to the open space at his side. "You're welcome to join in."

He expected demurral. Instead, Credence stepped onto the grass and came to stand near him, assuming the ready stance of Form I. Tension edged his shoulders, but he didn't hunch. 

His eyes were lowered. "I might need some reminders," he said.

"I doubt it," said Graves, suddenly divested of breath. "We'll try quarter speed. We can pause any time."

They didn't have to. Muscle memory resurfaced to guide Credence through the steps, the pivots, the sweeps of his arms. If awkwardness clung to him at first, by the end of the first kata he'd shed it, matching Graves' motions turn for turn. The Force flowed around and between them. Whatever aches Graves had felt earlier melted away.

When they halted they were breathing fast, despite the easy pace. A flush spread over Credence's neck and ears. He glanced at Graves, not quite shyly.

"Well done," Graves said.

The flush deepened. It occurred to Graves that the Force might've done them a solid by not bringing them together until now. Had Credence been his Padawan, he wasn't sure how they would've weathered adolescence.

*

The Temple maintained a mobile clinic to serve distant farms and mountain villages, or any beings for whom travel to the medical center at the Temple itself was a hardship. The Healers and their assistants staffed it on a rotating basis.

"I'm on the crew for tomorrow," Credence told Graves one evening. "I was wondering if you'd like to come."

It would be good to see more of the planet, thought Graves, to say nothing of the chance to watch Credence work. In the morning he rose early, trimmed his beard into a passable state, and went to meet Credence at the refectory.

They boarded the transport--not much to look at on the outside, but well equipped within--and took off for the lowlands, speeding over vast stretches of paddy fields and spice rhizome farms. Morning light glinted from the standing water, bright reflections interspersed with rows of green. Agri-droids and mechanized equipment combed the fields, some with humanoid figures at the helm.

The mobile clinic touched down in the central plaza of a village, near an open market and communal well. A small group of villagers awaited its landing: a gray-haired couple, young families, a lone woman with a toddler in arms. They came forward when the boarding ramp descended. Credence checked them in and directed them to the examination rooms, each in their turn. He was patient with them, younglings especially, as he listened to their concerns. 

It was work that needed doing, and he did it well, but the thought stole through Graves' mind, irrepressible: _he could do more._

The gray-haired woman, having relinquished her spouse to the Healers, spotted Graves and approached him.

"You must be new, Master Jedi. I wouldn't forget that face. A new Healer?" 

"A patient," said Graves. "Along for the ride."

"Ah." Her eyes crinkled in her leathery face. Beckoning, she led him down the boarding ramp and pointed across the village square, toward a pair of wind turbines. One was new, in good repair, its white blades turning in smooth rotation. The other was motionless, skeletal, its open frame rusted and bare. 

"If it's not too taxing, Master," she said, "perhaps we might ask for your help?"

*

The old turbine needed to come down, was the long and short of it. It was out of operation, and a hazard besides; the local children liked to try to climb it, despite posted rules and the dire threats of their elders. 

"They dare each other, you see. Little ninnies," said the woman, who turned out to be a member of the village council, complete with badge of office. "We've had one fall already this summer. Broke his arm. Lucky he didn't break his head. We can dismantle it, once it's down, but we haven't the equipment to take it down ourselves."

Graves made his way across the plaza to where the turbine stood. It was a smaller model, not much more than twenty meters, dwarfed by its newer, sleeker cousin. Three poles of tubular steel supported it, each as thick around as the bole of a large tree.

He drew his saber and ignited it. The beam flared to life, a blue so pale it was almost white. Squaring himself, Graves turned the blade perpedicular to the ground and began to slice through the nearest pole, melting the steel.

A small crowd began to gather, trickling out from the mobile clinic and the buildings that ringed the village square. When the first pole was cut through, Graves reached with the Force to hold the tower in place. He steadied it with his mind alone, keeping both hands on the saber's hilt. He cut through the second support, then the third, then powered down his saber. The assembled villagers scattered to one side. Marshaling the Force, Graves lowered the turbine, easing it earthward like a tree felled in slow motion, until it rested on the plaza ground.

Silence for a beat, and then the villagers burst into applause. The gathered children whooped and raced to climb on the supports, while their parents clucked and scrambled after them. Graves bowed in answer to the councilwoman's thanks, waving aside her offers of compensation.

It wasn't until he returned to the ship that he realized he'd drawn his saber without thinking, without a hitch. His palm tingled. Lack of mindfulness aside, maybe there was hope for him yet.

Credence was in the reception bay, entering data into the medi-droid. He looked up through his lashes as Graves appeared on deck.

"Holo star," he murmured.

"Oh, come off it."

"Everyone who wasn't with a patient stopped to watch. So did most of the patients."

Graves rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. "Just making myself useful."

Credence finished with his data and sat back, folding his hands between his knees. "MD-9, play most recent holo file, please."

With an obliging hum the droid produced a floating image, bringing Graves face to face with a projection of himself. A better-groomed version, one who held an infant Twi'lek in his arms. The Twi'lek burbled. An audio track in smooth, urbane Galactic Basic began to play. _Has your family been blessed with a Force-sensitive child? The Jedi Order welcomes all sapient species. Let us give your child the specialized care and training such younglings need to thrive, and to find their true place in the galaxy._

Credence was watching with avid interest. "One of the Healers sent it to me," he said.

"Oh, for the love of--" Graves summoned his Masterly dignity. He drew his hands into his cloak sleeves, if only to avert the urge to swipe at his own smarmy virtual mug. "Delete that," he huffed.

MD-9 blipped cheekily. "You don't have admin privileges," said Credence.

"'Admin privileges,'" muttered Graves. "You delete it, then."

Credence's eyes were far too bright. "I don't think I want to, Master Graves," he said.

*

However congenial the day had been, by night Graves returned to Nurmengard. In the dreams' turbid wake he rose from his narrow bed to meditate, then sat by the window, listening to night insects call to one another in the dark. 

The sabacc deck lay on the table. He pictured Credence's hands, their careful, self-contained motions, long fingers on the cards. Saw them crafting a saber, inserting the Kyber crystal with perfect, confident delicacy. A green blade, he thought, for a heart keyed to the Living Force. He'd known Tina's would be blue before she'd chosen the crystal.

The inventors of sabacc, the Ryn, had used the cards for divination. From time to time Graves would draw a card from the deck, in the way of its creators, and open himself to the Force. When visions came unaccompanied they were irruptive, confounding, but the cards could sometimes bring clarity when nothing else did.

He poured himself a cup of rice wine: a clear, clean sweetness on the tongue. The taste of it called to mind Credence now, invariably. Graves shuffled the deck, then drew.

The Six of Sabers, upright. _Passage, transition, recovery from loss. Movement away from strife towards peace. An ally on the journey._

Graves shook his head in the dark, and flicked the card onto the table.

"Tell me something I don't already know," he said to the Force.

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to the anon who suggested it, and a spiritual debt to every Qui/Obi fic ever. XD
> 
> You can find me at [unicornmagic.tumblr.com](unicornmagic.tumblr.com)


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